iimiiiiiwiwwMwwi 



■I !■■ p ^^yii 






MMat IHlftJBBSHfllfflS^ 





llll i llBlll I Hm iMIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIBIIIIMIIIillll IIIIIM II I 111 II ■UT 



d. 



wmm 



W III Ml.T - ' 




Class 
Book 



h2C2, 



-AlSSJi 




CopyilghtN^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




o 

< 

> 

Pi 

H 

O 
H 

Q 

6 

W 
H 

J?; 
o 



BYWAYS AROUND 
SAN FRANCISCO BAY 




THE ABINGDON PRESS 

NEW YORK CINCINNATI 



.5/ 6' 6 Hf 



Copyright, 1915, by 
W. E. HUTCHINSON 



V 



// 



A 



/ 






APR -6i9l5 

©CI,A39S229 



( 



Cs^ 



f 



DEDICATED TO 

MY WIFE 

THE DEAREST YET SEVEREST 

OF CRITICS 







Contents 




PAGE 

Sunset in the Golden 

Gate (Poem), . . 9 

Brook and Waterfall, 13 

Mountain and Valley, . . 23 

Canon and Hillside, ... ^^ 

Wild-cat Canon, .... 43 

Autumn Days (Poem), . . ^^ 

Around the Camp Fire, . 57 

Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills, . . 6^ 

On the Beach, 75 

Muir Woods, 85 

San Francisco Bay (Poem), 95 

In Chinatown, 99 



6 CONTENTS 



PAGE 



In a Glass-bottom Boat, iii 

Fog on the Bay, 121 

Melggs* Wharf, 131 

The Stake and Rider Fence (Poem), . . 139 

Moonlight, 143 

Mount Tamalpais, 153 

Bear Creek, 161 

The Song of the Reel (Poem), .... 171 

The Old Road, . . » . « . . o . 175 







oMl 




lltrations 



PAGE 



• I 



On the Road to Strawberry 

Canon, . . Frontispiece 

The Laughter of the Brook, 17 

Brook and Waterfall, . . 19 

The Turn of the Trail, . . 27 

Mountain and Valley, . . 29 

Sunshine and Shadow, . . 37 

Canon and Hillside, ... 39 

The Bottom of the Canon, . 47 

Wild-cat Canon, .... 49 

The Trout's Paradise, . . 69 

Fishing for Brook Trout, . 71 

They have Stood the Storms 

of Centuries, ... 79 



8 ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Sea Gull Rock, . . „ 8i 

Comrades, 89 

Among the Redwoods, 91 



A Chinese Shoemaker, 

In Chinatown, 

The Breaking Waves, 

The Glass-bottom Boat, 

Fog on the Bay, 

Italian Fishing Boats, 

Drying the Nets, . , 

The Witchery of Moonlight, 

Mount Tamalpais, 

An Uninterrupted View, 

Where the Shadows are Dark, 

On Bear Creek, , . 

The Old Road, 

It Climbs the Hill for a Broader View, 
Finis, 



03 
05 
15 

17 
25 
3S 
37 
47 
57 
59 

65 

67 

79 
81 

84 



-/'^-^ 





WHEN day is done there falls a solemn 
hush: 
The birds are silent in their humble nest. 
Then comes the Master Artist with his brush, 
And paints with brilliant touch the golden 
west. 

The blended colors sweep across the sky, 
And add a halo at the close of day. 

Their roseate hues far-reaching banners fly, 
And gild the restless waters of the bay. 

Mount Tamalpais stands in purple 'tire 
Against the background, Phcenixlike, or- 
nate: 

Apollo drives his chariot of fire 

Between the portals of the Golden Gate. 



12 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

No Other hand than His who rules on high, 
Could wield the brush and spread such 
bright array 

Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky, 
Then draw the curtain of departing day. 




B r o o k^'^^n ^dr^ a t e r f a 1 1 




B r o o k^an ^"W a t e r f a 1 1 



CALIFORNIA, the land of sunshine and 
roses, with its genial climate, its skies 
as blue as the far-famed skies of Venice, and 
its pure life-giving air, invites the lover of 
nature to take long tramps over hill and dale, 
mountain and valley, and to search out new 
trails in the rugged mountains. 

It is a common sight to see parties of men 
and women meet at the ferry building, 
dressed in khaki suits, with knapsacks strapped 
on their backs, waiting to take the boat across 
the bay to some of the numerous places of 
interest. There are plenty to choose from, 
but most of them go to the same places over 
and over, instead of searching out unfre- 
quented nooks that give one a feeling of pro- 
prietorship when discovered. It is an old say- 
ing, and a trite one, that ^'Familiarity breeds 



16 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

contempt." It is certainly true, however, that 
we often pass over the familiar and common- 
place to go into raptures over some lofty 
mountain peak, ignoring the gems that lie 
hidden away at its very base. 

There is a quiet beauty in the broad sweep 
of the valley, a stately majesty in the towering 
mountains, a restful grandeur in the rounded 
domes of the tree-clad hills, and an element of 
strength in the broad sweep of the ocean. One 
never tires of watching the constant change of 
light and shade, for they never appear twice 
alike. But we are in search of unfrequented 
nooks, the byways that others pass unnoticed, 
so we leave the prominent to seek out the 
obscure. 

To enjoy the out-of-doors at its best one 
needs a congenial companion; one who does 
not tire on the trail nor find fault with the 
little annoying things that are bound to occur 
on a long journey, but who, in the silent con- 
templation of God's handiwork, best expresses 
his appreciation of its wonderful beauty in 
silence; for there are times when silent en- 
joyment of a landscape produces a subtle 
interchange of thought that speaks louder 
than words. 



BROOK AND WATERFALL 



17 



Such a one is Hal, more like a brother than 
a son, and in winding over tortuous trails 
and climbing the rugged sides of mountains 
we have become good comrades; bound to- 
gether by the invisible tie of "Nature Lovers" 
and the ''Call of the Wild," as well as the 
greater bond of kinship. 

One could not begin to tell of the pleasure 
derived from these rambles over valley and 
mountain, not to speak 
of the health-giving exer- 
cise in the open air. 
They are far better than 
doctors' prescriptions, for 
they drive the cobwebs 
from the brain, bring re- 
freshing slumber, a new 
light to the eye, elasticity 
to the step, and keep one 
young in spirit, if not in 
years. 

It was a bright June 
morning when Hal and I *^. 
took the ferryboat for 
Sausalito, then by train 
to Mill Valley. It was 
just cool enough to make 







%'^^,.^.^~ ^-^. 



"^ 



THE LAUGHTER OF THE BROOK 



18 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

walking a pleasure, and after the clamor of 
the city the somber shadows of the forest, with 
its solitude, seemed like a benediction. On 
every side the giant redwoods tower hundreds 
of feet in air, straight and imposing, while 
the ground, on which the pine needles and 
crumbling bark have formed a brown mold, 
is as soft and springy to the tread as a velvet 
carpet. 

The resinous, aromatic odor of the pines, 
combined with the fresh woodsy fragrance, is 
like a tonic. Just ahead of us we see a growth 
of manzanitas, with their smooth purple- 
brown bark and pinkish white flowers in 
crowded clusters, standing out vividly against 
the background of oaks and firs, and we sink 
knee-deep amid the ferns and blue and yellow 
lupine. It seems almost sacrilegious to 
trample these exquisite violet-hooded flowers 
beneath our feet. 

Close to the trail a little mountain brook 
sings merrily over its pebbly bed, dodging in 
and out among the rocks, or chuckling in glee 
as it dashes in mimic fury over some unseen 
obstacle, as if it were playing hide and seek 
with the shadows along the bank. And we 
stop to rest and listen with pleasure to the 




BROOK Ax\D WATERFALL 



BROOK AND WATERFALL 21 



music of its woodland melody. A song 
sparrow joins in the chorus with his quaint 
sweet lullaby, like the tinkling of Venetian 
glass, his notes as clear and delicate as a silver 
bell. He evidently believes that singing 
lightens his labors, for he is industriously 
gathering material for the new home he is 
building close at hand aided by his demure 
mate, who, in reality, does most of the work. 

The trail grows steeper and harder to climb 
as we ascend. We hear the sound of falling 
water ahead of us, and around a bend in the 
path, and through an opening in the trees, we 
come upon a beautiful waterfall pouring over 
the rocks like a bridal veil. 

We drop our cameras and scramble down 
the rocks, drinking cup in hand, and slake 
our thirst at this crystal fountain. Was ever 
a more delightful draught for thirsty mortals 
than from this little pool hidden away here 
in this mountain fastness? It is a place in 
which druids and wood-nymphs might revel, 
surrounded on all sides by stately trees and 
moss-grown rocks, fringed with ferns of all 
kinds, from the delicate maidenhair to the 
wide-spreading shield variety, bordered with 
blue and gold lupine (California's colors). 



22 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



and close to the falls, a bush thickly covered 
with white flowering dogwood blossoms, 
standing out like a rare painting against the 
green-and-brown background — a spot to thrill 
the soul of an artist. Yet how many had ever 
found this sylvan retreat, hidden away, as it 
is, from the main highway? 



^:^ 'tf 




Mountain 
and Va 1 1 ey 



\y>^m. 




'^^-y ' ^:.^-~ 



,,'\„ /M*»„ 




Mountain 
and Va 1 1 ey 



t— >•»- 




IT is hard for us to leave the falls with all 
their surrounding beauty, and with re- 
luctance we take one last look at this delight- 
ful glen planted in the heart of the wilderness, 
and strike out on the upward trail. 

At a turn in the path, where it seems as if 
we were about to walk off into space, we get 
a glimpse through the trees of Mount Tamal- 
pais. Towering above us with its seam-scarred 
sides, rent and torn by the storms of centuries, 
it rears its jagged dome amid the clouds. We 
can just make out a train of diminutive cars 
winding a tortuous course in and out around 
the curves, the toy engine fighting every inch 
of the steep incline, and panting like an 
athlete with Herculean efforts to reach the 
summit. Across the intervening space a hawk 
wheels and turns in ever-widening circles. 



26 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



We watch him through the glass, rising 
higher and higher with each successive sweep, 
until he fades into a mere speck in the distant 
blue. 

Up we climb, until another view discloses 
the valley below us like a panorama. We 
creep out to the very edge, and for miles in 
either direction it stretches away, as if some 
giant hand had cleaved for himself a pathway 
between the mountains. We stand spell- 
bound, entranced by the wonderful beauty of 
the scene, and drink long draughts of the 
fresh mountain air. 

The dazzling splendor of the noonday sun 
brings out vividly the variegated colors of 
the foliage, and banks of white fleecy clouds 
floating overhead trail their shadows over the 
valley and up the mountainside like ghostly 
outriders. The pointed tops of the fir trees, 
miles below us, look like stunted shrubbery; 
the buildings in Mill Valley seem like dolls' 
houses nestling among the trees; while far in 
the distance the blue waters of the bay glisten 
in the sunshine, Alcatraz Island rises out of 
its watery bed, and San Francisco stands 
silhouetted against the distant hills. 

We are lost in wonder at the grand spec- 



MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY 



27 



tacle spread out before us; it is a very fairy- 
land of enchantment, as if brought into being 
by the genii of Aladdin. For nearly an hour 
we watch the lights and shadows flicker over 
the valley, the high lights in sharp contrast 
to the deep dark purples of the caiion. 

On the far side of the valley the sloping 
hills are covered with that most exquisite 
flower, the California poppy, its countless 
millions of golden blossoms fairly covering 
the earth. It is a sun worshiper, for not until 
the warm sun 
kisses its golden 
head does it wake 
from its slumbers 
and throw open 
its tightly rolled 
petals. No won- 
der the Spanish 
mariners sailing 
along the coast 
and seeing these 
golden flowers 
covering the hills 
like a yellow car- 
pet called this 
^The Land of 

THE TURN OF THE TRAIL 




28 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



Fire." This beautiful flower is one of Cali- 
fornia's natural wonders — ^'Copa-de-oro" — 
cup of gold. It is as famed in the East as in 
the West, and thousands come to California 
to see it in its prodigal beauty. Steps should 
quickly be taken to conserve this wild splen- 
dor, and restrictions should be put upon the 
vandals, who, not content with picking what 
they can use to beautify the home, tear them 
up by the roots just to see how large an armful 
they can gather, scattering their golden petals 
to the four winds of heaven when they begin 
to droop. 

An old dead pine, whitened by many 
storms, its gnarled and twisted branches 
pathetic in their shorn splendor, is brought 
into prominence by the background of vivid 
green into which it seems to shrink, as if to 
hide its useless naked skeleton. 

But the lengthening shadows in the valley 
warn us to begin our descent, and as we have 
no desire to sleep out on the trail without 
blankets or other camp comforts, we begin 
our return trip by another route. Light wisps 
of fog begin to gather around the top of 
Mount Tamalpais, and we hasten our steps, 
for to be caught in a fog at this altitude may 



o 

> 



> 

> 




MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY 31 

mean a forced camp, with all its attending 
discomforts. 

We pause for a moment on the margin of 
a little lake nestling amid the hills, its blue 
waters, unruffled by the wind in its sheltered 
nook, reflecting back as in a mirror the trees 
that surround it on all sides. But we may not 
linger to drink in the beauty of this quiet 
spot, where the red deer once slaked their 
thirst at its quiet margin, standing kneedeep 
in the rushes and lilypads. 

Ahead of us a blue jay, that tattler of the 
woods, flashes his blue coat in and out among 
the trees ; always saucy, impertinent, and sus- 
picious, bubbling over with something im- 
portant to tell, and afraid he will not be the 
first to tell it. When he discovers us watch- 
ing, he sets up his clamorous cry of ''Thief! 
Thief!" and hurries away to spread the alarm. 
A mighty borrower of trouble, this gayly 
dressed harlequin of the woods, and yet the 
forest would not seem complete without his 
gay blue vestments. 

Suddenly we find ourselves in a cul-de-sac; 
the trail coming to an abrupt end. We re- 
trace our steps, and after much searching, 
find a narrow trail almost hidden by vines and 



32 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



underbrush. Venturing in, we follow its tor- 
tuous and uneven course along the edge of the 
caiion, and, as the evening shadows gather, 
and the stars come out one by one, tired and 
dust-covered, we reach the valley, and enjoy 
the moonlight ride across the bay to San 
Francisco. 





Canon and Hillside 




feb.^. 




DID you ever see the Berkeley hills in the 
early morning, just before the sun 
comes stealing over their rounded domes, or 
in the evening, just before it sinks beneath 
the waters of the bay, and casts its waning 
light over their rugged sides? 

There never was a more pleasing sight than 
their uneven profile sharply drawn against 
the grayish purple. Watch them as they 
gradually assume shape out of the decreasing 
shadows. The blotches of green and brown 
take form and grow into canons and gullies, 
rocks and towers, domes and minarets. What 
a place to build a mosque, and say one's 
prayers to the rising sun! 

Near the Greek Theater, which pushes its 
vast amphitheater into the heart of the hills, 



36 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

winds a canon, not large and imposing, but 
very beautiful. It is called by some, after 
the policy of the University of California, 
through whose domain it runs, ''Co-ed 
Caiion" ; by others, from the abundance of 
charming blossoms and luscious fruit found 
upon its rugged sides, "Strawberry Canon." 
But "What's in a name?" By any other it 
would be as pleasing. 

Trees, gnarled and twisted, reach out their 
arms across the little brook that sings merrily 
at the bottom. Far into the hills it pushes 
its winding way, and one must needs scramble 
over many a fallen tree and mossy rock in 
following its beautiful path. 

One cannot see very far ahead, but at each 
succeeding turn in the trail new wonders open 
before us. Here it is so narrow we are com- 
pelled to walk in single file, while just beyond 
it broadens out into a grassy slope, and through 
an open vista on the right we get a glimpse 
of Old Grizzly looming up in all its grandeur. 
To the left, far above us on the hillside, we 
can see a large cement "C" some thirty feet 
in length, placed there by the students of the 
university to commemorate hotly contested 
games of football between the two colleges. 



CANON AND HILLSIDE 



37 



With what jealous care is it watched over on 
the eve of a battle to keep the contesting team 
from painting it with their college colors! 

In this cafion we find that pest of nature- 
lovers who are susceptible to it, the poison 
oak. For all its sinister effects, it is a charm- 




SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 



ing shrub so far as appearance goes, with its 
bright, glossy serrated leaves ; but do not 
invite a too familiar acquaintance, for it is a 
shrub to be admired at a distance. 

At a path that seems quite accessible we 
climb out of the canon, and strike out across 
the hills. We stop for a moment's rest at a 



38 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



fence, and while we are filling our lungs with 
the crisp morning air we see where a spider 
has industriously spun his web during the 
night, from a stalk of ragweed to the fence 
corner. The dew has settled upon it and each 
silken thread stands out perfectly, shining in 
the morning sunshine like some old jewelry 
made of filagree silver. You little realize, 
you tiny spinner of silken fabrics, how easily 
your gauzy structure may be broken, and all 
your work come to naught; for on the fence 
a catbird, scolding incessantly, has one eye 
open for a stray titbit in the shape of a little 
weaver of webs, and you may help to make 
him an early breakfast. 

The meadow larks are sending out their 
cheery ^'Spring o' the year" from fence rail 
and covert, a song most sweet and inspiring. 
A flock of blackbirds goes sailing past, and 
high overhead a killdee's plaintive cry echoes 
over the valley. From here we get a beau- 
tiful view of the bay and the Golden Gate, 
and in the far distance the dome of Mount 
Tamalpais rises above the clouds. 

The ferryboats from Oakland, Berkeley, 
Alameda, and Sausalito are plying their cease- 
less traffic from mole to mole. White-sailed 






%M: 




CANON AND HILLSIDE 



CANON AND HILLSIDE 41 

ships from foreign countries, outward bound 
with the tide, conveyed by little bustling tugs, 
look like monster white-winged gulls; and 
somber-hued gunboats, their portholes bris- 
tling with deadly engines of war, strain at 
their cables. It is an inspiring sight, and, 
turning away with reluctance, we circle the 
hill to Cragmont Heights, stopping to rest 
on the rocky summit that overlooks the valley. 

To our right in North Brae rises a massive 
pile of granite, known as ''Indian Rock." It 
marks the resting place of a number of Indian 
warriors who once roamed the surrounding 
hills, and is a fitting monument to this once 
noble race. 

This is the time of year when the birds set 
up housekeeping; and such debonair wooers 
the male birds are! Dressed in their gay 
attire, they display it to the best advantage 
before the fair sex. Is there anything so 
interesting or so amusing as bird courtship? 
The rollicking song of the male, an exhibition 
of his vocal powers worthy of a virtuoso, is 
accompanied by the most comical gymnastics 
— bowing, scraping, and side-stepping like a 
dancing-master; all of which, I am sure, is 
highly appreciated by the demure little lady. 



42 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

I have seen birds courting in the stately figures 
of the minuet, crossing over and back, bowing 
and curtsying, in a dignified manner. Listen 
to the meadow lark as he pours out his heart 
in a love song to his mate. As near as I can 
understand him he is saying, ''Spring is here, 
my dear, my dear," and in a lower tone, "Let's 
build a nest." When such an ardent wooer 
lays siege to my lady, using such exquisite 
music to further his suit, she must have a 
heart of stone that would not quickly capitu- 
late to his amour. 

The bobolink, that little minstrel of the 
marshes, teeters up and down on a swaying 
cattail, and flirts most scandalously, as he 
calls to his lady love: "What a pink, what a 
pink, little minx, little minx! You're a dear, 
dear, dear." 

But we cannot stay to spy upon such love 
scenes, and we strike out on the trail for home, 
after listening with pleasure, as well as profit, 
to these feathered musicians. 




?-~l 




IT was on February 22, Washington's 
Birthday, that Hal and I started in the 
early morning from Berkeley, for a trip to 
Wild-cat Cafion. The birds are singing their 
Te Deum to the morning sun. The Cali- 
fornia partridges run along the path ahead 
of us, their waving crests bobbing up and 
down as they scurry out of sight under the 
bushes, seldom taking wing, but depending on 
their sturdy little legs to take them out of 
harm's way. A cotton-tail, disturbed in his 
hiding, darts away, bounding from side to 
side like a rubber ball, as if expecting a shot 
to overtake him before he can get safely to 
cover. He need not fear, as we have no more 
deadly weapon than a camera, though we 
should certainly train that upon him if he but 
gave us a chance. High overhead we hear 



46 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

the clarion honk, honk of wild geese, cleaving 
the air in drag-shaped column, while the dew 
on the grass dances and sparkles in the sun- 
shine like glittering diamonds. 

After a hard climb we reach the top of 
the hill, and look down at the town just awak- 
ening into life, and out across the waters of 
the bay partly hidden by the blanket of fog 
rolling in from the ocean. 

Did you ever stand on the top of a high hill 
in the early morning, when the eastern sky 
is beginning to put on its morning robe of 
variegated colors, with all the blended shades 
of an artist's palette, and watch the town, 
nestling in the valley at your feet, wake up 
after its night of slumber? Here a chimney 
sends its spiral of blue smoke straight in air; 
then another, and another, like the smoke of 
Indian scouts signaling to their tribes. The 
lights in the windows go out, one by one; the 
sharp blast of a whistle cuts the air, the clang 
of a bell peals out, the rumble of a wagon is 
heard, and the street cars begin their clatter 
and clang. All this comes floating up to you 
on the still morning air, until an ever-increas- 
ing crescendo of sounds is borne in upon you, 
telling that the town has awakened from its 



WILD-CAT CANON 



47 



nap, stretched itself like a drowsy giant, and 
is ready once more to grapple with its various 
problems. 

We pass a grove of tall eucalyptus trees on 
our left, their rugged trunks like an army of 
tattered, unkempt giants. From the brink of 
the old stone quarry, we gaze down into its 
prisonlike depths, the perpendicular walls 
looking as if they had been carved out of solid 
rock to hold some pri- 
meval malefactor; then 
we descend the hill on 
the other side to the 
caiion. 

The view on every 
side is magnificent. Ris- 
ing out of the canon, on 
the farther side, the 
rounded domes of the 
hills, clothed in velvet 
green, roll from one to 
another like huge waves 
of the ocean, while far 
to the right old Grizzly 
stands majestically 
above the others, its top 
crowned with waving 




THE BOTTOM OF THE CANON 



48 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

verdure, like the gaudy headdress of some 
mighty warrior. 

We descend into the cafion by a well- 
marked trail, and the shade of the trees is 
most grateful after our walk in the sun. We 
follow downstream, where the speckled trout 
lie hid in the deep pools, and the song spar- 
rows sing their sweetest, and at last find our- 
selves at the object of our quest, opposite the 
caves. 

There are three or four of these, large and 
small, which were used in former times by 
the Indians. We had fully intended to climb 
the face of this almost perpendicular cliff, to 
explore the caves, and photograph the in- 
teriors with the aid of flashlights, but decided 
that the climb was too hard, and the ground 
too wet and slippery for safety. As a false 
step or an insecure foothold would send us 
to the bottom with broken bones, if not broken 
necks, we contented ourselves with photo- 
graphing the face of the cliff from a safe 
distance. 

Retracing our steps, crossing the stream, 
and making a long detour, we tried to reach 
the caves from above. It was a hard, tedious 
climb, over rough and jagged rocks, but after 



WILD-CAT CANON 51 

nearly an hour's struggle, slipping and sliding, 
holding on to every shrub that offered the 
semblance of a grip, we reached the top. 
Then, by a more tedious and dangerous 
descent, we reached a large flat rock just 
above the caves. Crawling out upon the rock, 
and venturing as near the edge as we dared, 
we found it almost as impossible to reach the 
caves from above as from below, and finally 
gave up the attempt. 

But we were well repaid for our rough 
climb, for a more magnificent panorama 
could hardly be found. We looked for miles 
up and down the caiion, in either direction, so 
far below us that the head grew dizzy. The 
trees followed the tortuous course of the 
cafion, and two men that we saw far below 
us looked like pigmies. 

Far above us a sparrow hawk circled above 
the trees, and we were told that an owl had 
a nest somewhere among the rocks. We did 
not look for it, but certainly nothing but an 
owl, or some other bird, could ever hope to 
scale the rocks successfully. We rested a long 
time on the top of the rock, enjoying the view, 
and regaining our wind for the climb to the 
top. This we accomplished without accident, 



52 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

save for the few scratches incident to such 
work. It was the season when the flowering 
currant puts on its gala dress of pink blossoms, 
and the banks of the creek for a long distance 
were like a flower garden. On the higher 
ground the beautiful Zygadene plant, with its 
pompon of white star-shaped flowers, and 
long graceful leaves, grew in profusion. 
Maidenhair ferns, the only variety we saw, 
sent forth their delicate streamers from every 
nook and cranny, forming a carpet of ex- 
quisite texture. 

When we reached the top of the hill on 
our return, and looked down upon Berkeley, 
the sun was obscured by a high fog, and a 
cold wind came up to us from the bay, making 
us step lively to keep the blood circulating. 
We reached home late in the afternoon, worn, 
and leg-weary, but well satisfied with our 
holiday in Wild-cat Cafion and the beautiful 
Berkeley hills. 




Auiumn Days 















7"HWW 




WHEN bright-hued leaves from tree 
and thicket fall, 
And on the ground their autumn carpet 
strew; 
And overhead the wild geese honking call, 
In wedge-shaped column, high amid the 
blue: 



When from the sagebrush, and from moun- 
tain high. 
The quaiTs soft note reechoes far and wide; 
When hunter moon hangs crescent in the sky, 
And wild deer range on rugged mountain 
side: 



oQ BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

When old primeval instincts, nature born, 

Stir in the hunter's blood with lust to kill. 
And drive him forth with dog and gun, at 
morn. 
To sheltered blind, or runway 'neath the 
hill- 



All these proclaim the glorious autumn days, 
When Nature spends her wealth with lavish 
hand, 

And o'er the landscape spreads a purple haze. 
And waves her magic scepter o'er the land. 




ire 



DID you ever camp in the woods on a 
moonlight night and listen to nature's 
voices? Have you seen the light flicker 
through the trees, and glisten on the little 
brook, its ripples breaking into molten silver 
as it glides away between banks o'erhung 
with fern and trailing grasses? 

Did you ever sit by the camp fire after 
a day's climb over rocks and treacherous 
trails, or after whipping the stream up and 
down for the speckled beauties, and watch 
the flames climb higher and higher, the 
sparks flying upward as you throw on the dry 
pine branches, and listen to the trees over- 
head, swayed by the gentle breeze, croon their 
drowsy lullaby? Thus were Hal and I 
camped one night in June, at Ben Lomond, 



60 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I shall 
never forget the glory of that moonlight 
night. 

There is a delightful, comforting feeling 
about it, and somehow it always reminds me 
of a theater, one of God's own handiwork, 
whose dome is the blue vault of heaven, stud- 
ded with its millions of stars. The silver 
moon just peeping over the mountain, throw- 
ing into grand relief its rugged seam-scarred 
sides, the calcium light; the pine trees with 
waving plumes, rising file on file like 
shrouded specters, form the stage setting; the 
mountain brook, on whose bosom the moon 
leaves a streak of molten silver, the footlights ; 
while all the myriad voices of the night, har- 
moniously blended, are the orchestra. Even 
the birds in their nests, awakened by the 
firelight, join their sleepy chirpings to the 
chorus. 

It has something primeval about it, and 
one almost expects to see Robin Hood or 
Friar Tuck step out into the firelight. The 
camp fire carries one back to the days when 
the red men roamed the woods, sat round 
their camp fires, listened to the talking leaves, 
and boasted of their prowess. 



AROUND THE CAMP FIRE 61 

What sweet memories linger round the 
camp fire, where the song of the cricket brings 
to us recollections of boyhood's days on the 
farm, when we listened to the little minstrel, 
joined to the voice of the katydids, as their 
elfin music came floating up from field and 
meadow in a pulsating treble chorus. Dear 
little black musician of my childhood! Your 
note still lingers in my memory and brings 
before me the faces of those long since de- 
parted, who sat around the fireplace and 
listened to your cheery song. There was an 
unwritten law among us boys never to kill a 
cricket, and we kept it as sacredly as was 
kept the law of the Medes and Persians. 

There is another side to the camp fire: the 
genial comradery of its cheery blaze, after 
the supper is over and the pipes lit, which 
invites stories of the day's catch. The speckled 
beauties are exhibited, lying side by side on 
the damp moss at the bottom of the basket. 
The tale is told of repeated casts, under the 
overhanging boughs, in the shadow of the big 
rock, where the water swirls and rushes : how 
the brown hackle went skittering over the 
pool, or dropped as lightly as thistledown 
on the edge of the riffle, the sudden rise to the 



62 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

fly, the rush for deep water, of the strain on 
the rod when it throbbed like a thing of life, 
sending a delicious tingle to the finger tips, 
the successful battle, and the game brought 
to the net at last. 

The delicious odor of the coflfee bubbling 
in the pot, the speckled beauties, still side by 
side, sizzling in the pan, all combine to tempt 
the appetite of an epicure. 

The camp fire has strange and varied com- 
panions. Men from all walks of life are 
lured by its cheery blaze. Here sits the noted 
divine in search of recreation, and, inciden- 
tally, material for future sermonic use; a 
prominent physician, glad to escape for a 
season the complaining ills, real or imaginary, 
of his many patients ; a judge, whose benign 
expression, as he straightens the leaders in his 
flybook, or carefully wipes the moisture from 
his split bamboo rod, suggests nothing of 
justice dispensed with an iron hand; and 
Emanuel, our Mexican guide, who content- 
edly inhales the smoke from his cigarette as 
he lounges in the warmth of the blazing camp 
fire, dreaming of his sefiorita. 

Who can withstand the call of the camp 
fire, when the sap begins to run in the trees. 



AROUND THE CAMP FIRE 63 

and the buds swell with growing life? The 
meadow larks call from the pasture, and 
overhead the killdee pipes his plaintive call. 
One longs to lie in the sunshine and watch 
the clouds go trailing over the valley. The 
smell of the woods and the smoke of the camp 
fire are in the air, and that old restless longing 
steals over him. It is a malady that no pre- 
scription compounded by the hand of a physi- 
cian can alleviate. Its only antidote is a liberal 
dose of Mother Nature's remedy, ''God's Out- 
of-Doors." 

What changes the close contact of nature 
makes in her loving children! You would 
hardly know these men dressed in khaki suits 
and flannel shirts, smoking their evening pipes 
around the camp fire, as the same men who 
attend receptions and banquets in the city, 
dressed in conventional evening clothes; and 
I dare say they enjoy the camp fire, with its 
homely fare and cheery blaze, far more 
than electric-lighted parlors and costly 
catering. 

But the camp fire wanes. A stick burns 
through and falls asunder, sending up a 
shower of sparks. Charred embers only re- 
main. We spread our blankets with knap- 



64 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

sack for pillow. With no sound of traffic to 
mar our slumbers, soothed by the wind in 
the branches, and the gentle song of the moun- 
tain brook for a lullaby, we are wooed to 
sleep on the broad bosom of Mother Earth. 




Trout Fish in 
B e r ke 1 ey 



^ in 

Rill 



th 



Is 




W 








Trout Fishing in the 
B erke 1 e v 



^ in 

Rill 










SINCE the days when Izaak Walton wrote 
The Complete Angler, men have emu- 
lated his example, and gone forth with rod 
and reel to tempt the finny tribe from dashing 
mountain brook or quiet river. 

We, being his disciples, thought to follow 
his example, and spend the day in the Berkeley 
hills whipping the stream for the wary brook 
trout. 

April first is the open season for trout in 
California, but owing to the scarcity of rain 
we feared the water in the brook would be 
too low for good fishing. Providence favored 
us, however, with a steady downpour on 
Wednesday, which put new hope in our hearts, 
and water in the stream; and we decided to 



68 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



try our luck on Saturday afternoon, and take 
what came to our hooks as a ''gift of the 

gods." 

Accordingly, we met at the Ferry Building, 
fully equipped, and took the boat across San 
Francisco Bay, thence by cars to Claremont, 
and from there struck into the hills. The 
wind blew cold from the bay, having a clear 
sweep up through the Golden Gate, but as 
soon as we began to make the ascent our coats 
became a burden. 

It was a hard, tedious climb over the first 
range of hills, but upon reaching the summit 
and looking down into the valley we felt 
well repaid for our trouble, as we gazed in 
awed delight upon the magnificent view 
spread out below us like a panorama. 

The valley stretches out in either direction 
far below us, as if to ofifer an uninterrupted 
flow for the mountain brook through which 
it passes. We counted twelve peaks surround- 
ing the valley, their rounded domes glowing 
with the beautiful California poppy, like a 
covering of a cloth of gold, while below the 
peaks the sloping sides looked like green 
velvet. Here and there pine groves dotted 
the landscape, while madrones and manza- 



TROUT FISHING IN THE BERKELEY HILLS 69 

nitas stood out vividly against their dark- 
green background. 

Orinda Creek, the object of our quest, runs 
through this beautiful valley, shut in on each 
side by the hills. Along the trail leading to 
the stream blue and white lupines grow in 
profusion, giving a delicate amethyst tinge to 
the landscape. Wild honeysuckle, with its 
pinkish-red blossoms, is on every side and the 
California azalea fringes both banks of the 
stream, its rich foliage almost hidden by 
magnificent clusters 
of white and yellow 
flowers, which send 
out a delightful, 
spicy fragrance, that 
can be detected far 
back from the 
stream. 

The meadow larks 
called from the hill- 
side their quaint 
^'Spring o' the year," 
the song sparrows 
sang their tinkling 
melody from the live 
oaks, catbirds mewed 




THE TROUT S PARADISE 



70 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

from the thicket, and occasionally a linnet 
sang its rollicking solo as it performed queer 
acrobatic feats while on the wing. 

Ahead of us a blue jay kept close watch 
over our movements, but at last decided that 
we are harmless, and with a last shriek of 
defiance flew away to pour out his vitupera- 
tions on other hapless wanderers. 

Adjusting our rods, and baiting our hooks 
with salmon roe, we crept down to where a 
little fall sent the water swirling around a 
rock, making a deep pool, and an ideal place 
for trout. Dropping our lines into the rapids, 
we let the bait float down close to the rock in 
the deep shadows. As soon as it struck the 
riffle there was a flash of silver, and the game 
was hooked. Away he went, the reel hum- 
ming a merry tune as he raced back and forth 
across the pool, the rod bent like a coach 
whip, the strain on the line sending a de- 
lightful tingle to our finger tips. But he soon 
tired of the unequal contest, and was brought 
safely to the landing net. He was by no means 
a large fish, as game fish are reckoned, but to 
my mind it is not always the largest fish that 
gives the keenest sport. 

From one pool to another we passed, wet- 




FISHING FOR BROOK TROUT 



TROUT FISHING IN THE BERKELEY HILLS 73 

ting a line in each with fair success, scram- 
bling over logs and lichen-covered rocks, 
wading from one side of the stream to the 
other, until the lengthening shadows warned 
us to wind in our lines and start for home. 
Well satisfied we were with the thirty-two 
trout reposing at the bottom of our basket. 

Our long tramp and the salt sea air had 
made us ravenously hungry, and the sand- 
wiches that provident wives had prepared for 
us were dug out of capacious pockets and 
eaten with a relish that an epicure might 
covet. I shall never forget the trip back. 
Night overtook us before we were out of the 
first valley, the ascent was very steep, and we 
had to stop every few rods to get our wind. 

At last we reached the summit of Grizzly 
Peak, seventeen hundred and fifty-nine feet 
above sea level, while to our right Bald Peak, 
nineteen hundred and thirty feet high, loomed 
up against the sky. The path on Grizzly was 
so narrow we had to walk single file, and a 
false step would have sent us rolling down 
hundreds of feet. 

The view — although seen in vague outline 
— was magnificent. Berkeley and Oakland 
lay seventeen hundred feet below us, their 



74 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

twinkling lights glowing through the dark- 
ness like fireflies. Out on San Francisco Bay 
the lights flashed from the mastheads of ships 
at anchor or from brightly lighted ferryboats 
plying from mole to mole, while far to the 
left, Lake Merritt lay like a gray sheet amid 
the shadows. In the middle distance oflf 
Yerba Buena Island two United States gun- 
boats were at anchor, one of them sending 
the rays of its powerful searchlight here and 
there across the water, and making a veritable 
path of silver far out across the bay. 

Jack rabbits and cotton-tails scurried across 
our path and dodged into thickets. An owl 
flapped lazily over our heads and sailed away 
down the valley, evidently on his nocturnal 
hunting. But we had little time or inclina- 
tion to give to these mountain creatures, as 
we had to pay strict attention to our footing. 

The last descent proved to be the hardest, 
for the grade was as steep as the roof of a 
house, but we finally succeeded in scrambling 
down, and at last reached the grove surround- 
ing the Greek Amphitheater; then home, 
footsore and weary, but happy with our after- 
noon's outing on the trout streams in the 
Berkeley Hills. 




^^> 



WE stand in awe at the grandeur of the 
mountains, thrusting their snow- 
capped summits into the clouds, and it is in- 
deed a glorious sight; but the ocean, with its 
ceaseless motion, its wonderful rising and 
falling of the tides, and its constant and mys- 
terious moaning, is not to be outdone in 
sublimity, and oflfers a keen delight to the 
lover of nature. Its sands and waters are 
ever changing. Its rugged coast, with rocks 
scattered in wild profusion, is one of the most 
interesting spots in all the world. 

A piece of wreckage is thrown upon the 
beach, and you wonder what dire disaster 
happened far out at sea, and if the rest of the 
ship went to the bottom with all on board. 
But take it home, let it dry in the sun, then 
place it on your open grate fire, and as you 
watch the iridescent blaze curl up the chim- 



78 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

ney, dream dreams, and weave strange fancies 
in the light of your driftwood fire. 

A day at the seashore is one of pleasure, a 
delightful change from woods and uplands 
to rocks and rushing waters. Some prefer 
the smooth stretch of sandy beach, where one 
may lie at luxurious ease in the warm sand, 
and listen to the waves lapping along shore, 
or, discarding shoes and stockings, wade out 
until the white-capped waves, like policemen, 
drive you back from encroaching upon old 
Neptune's domain. But we prefer the rocky 
clififs, combined with the sandy beach, and 
such a place is Land's End, near the Golden 
Gate, in San Francisco. 

We started down the steep incline, strewn 
with jagged rocks, to follow the narrow path 
along the clififs. But our outing was marred 
by meeting two men toiling up the path along 
the narrow way, carrying an unfortunate 
sightseer who had ventured too near the edge 
of the clifT and fallen into the ocean. Only 
the prompt action of a friend who scrambled 
down the rocks at the risk of his life saved 
him from a watery grave. His resuscitation 
must have been painful, judging by his 
agonizing groans, but the ambulance officers 



ON THE BEACH 



79 



had been summoned and the unfortunate 
sufferer was cared for at the hospital. 

The incident served to make us more care- 
ful, and at the narrowest place in the path we 
used the utmost caution, for the rocks below^ 
rose up like dragon's teeth, ready to impale us 
if we should make a false step — and that white 
drawn face haunted us like a specter. 

The path along the ocean is a narrow and 
tortuous one, run- _„_ 

ning about halfway 
between the water 
and the top of the 
cliff. Great granite 
rocks rise up like 
giants to dispute our 
passage, but by nu- 
merous twistings the 
path skirts their base, 
or wriggles snake- 
like over the top. 

Hundreds of feet 
below, the waves 
come rolling in from 
the ocean, dashing 
with a giant's fury 
against the rocks, 




THEY HAVE STOOD THE STORMS 
OF CENTURIES 



80 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

and shattering themselves into white spray 
that is tossed high in air, like thousands of 
white fingers seeking to clutch the granite 
barrier. Then receding like a roaring lion 
baffled of its prey, it gathers new strength, and 
flings itself again and again against the rocks, 
like a gladiator striving for the mastery. 

Here, in a massive pile of rocks, is a deep, 
dark cavern, evidently worn by the action of 
the waves that have pounded against it for 
centuries. Looking out upon the ocean, we 
see a wave mightier than all the others sweep- 
ing onward, as if challenging the rocks to 
mortal combat, its mighty curving crest white 
and seething with foam, hissing like a serpent 
On it comes, sweeping over half-submerged 
rocks, growling in its fury, sublime in its 
towering majesty, awful in its giant's strength. 

Nearing the rocks, it seems to hang sus- 
pended for a moment, then hurls itself as from 
a catapult against the barrier with a sound 
like thunder, filling the cavern to its utmost, 
causing the ground to fairly tremble with the 
impact, and sending the white spray high up 
the face of the cliflf, to be scattered like chaf¥ 
before the breeze. And the old rock that has 
stood the storms of ages, looks down at its 




SEA GULL ROCK 



ON THE BEACH 83 

beaten and broken enemy, swirling, seething, 
and snarling at its feet, and fairly laughs at 
its puny efforts. 

Here we venture to a place that seems ac- 
cessible in order to procure a photograph. 
It was a foolhardy undertaking, and we knew 
it. But fortune favored us, and the much- 
desired picture was secured. But thus will 
men gamble with death to gratify a whim, 
for a false step or sudden vertigo would have 
sent us crashing on to the jagged rocks below. 

Overhead the sea gulls beat the air on tire- 
less wings, or skim close to the water, intent 
upon their ceaseless search for food. Far out 
the lighthouse stands anchored to the rocks, 
the waves dashing against it, as if to tear it 
from its firm foundation. But it defies them 
all, and sends the cheery beacon light over 
the waters, to guide the stately ships between 
the portals of the Golden Gate. 

Directly opposite, the white buildings of 
Point Bonita stand out against the green of 
the hills; strongly fortified, and ready at all 
times to defend the entrance to San Fran- 
cisco Bay against warlike intruders. 

Two hardy fishermen have ventured out at 
low tide to a large rock and are casting their 



84 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

lines into the boiling waters for rock-cod or 
porgies, while the Italian fishing boats, with 
their queer striped sails, form a striking con- 
trast to the massive steamboats, with smoke 
trailing from their twin funnels, that are out- 
ward bound for China or Japan. 

Farther on, where the rocks descend to the 
sea level, we roam the beach and gather sea 
shells, starfish, and sea urchins; and by a 
shallow pool we stop to watch the scarlet 
fringes of the sea anemones, waving back and 
forth with the action of the tide. Barnacles 
cover the top of every rock that the tide 
reaches, and the long, blackish, snakelike 
seaweed is strewn along the beach. 

We watch the tide come creeping in, each 
succeeding wave running a little farther up 
the beach and driving us back with relentless 
energy from its rightful possessions. 

The sun sinks down in golden splendor 
behind the ocean's rim, leaving a track of 
molten gold that tips as with a halo the edges 
of the dancing waves. We turn our faces 
homeward, with a last, lingering look at the 
majestic expanse of blue rolling waters, and 
ever in our ears sounds the ceaseless moaning 
of the ocean. 





L$&^ 



Muir Woods 











Wood s 




i— i 4-^ 



JUNE, to me, is one of the most fascinating 
months in California — if any of them 
can be set apart and called more perfect than 
another — for June is a month of moods. 

If you are an Easterner you would abandon 
your proposed picnic party, upon rising in the 
morning, for fear of rain, and, being a tender- 
foot, you would be justified, for the clouds — 
or, more properly speaking, the high fog — 
give every indication of a shower. But an 
old Californian would tell you to take no 
thought of appearances, and to leave your 
umbrella and raincoat at home, for this is 
one of nature's ^'bluffs" ; by ten o'clock the sun 
will be shining brightly, and the fog dispersed 
under its warm rays. 

Then pack your lunch basket, don your 
khaki suit, and strike out on the trail, while 



88 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

the dew still twinkles on the grass blades like 
cut diamonds, and the birds are singing their 
Te Deum to the morning sun. 

It was on just such a day that we set out on 
a trip to Muir Woods and the giant sequoias, 
one of the most beautiful spots in the State. 
From Mill Valley the climb is a steep one, 
passing the picturesque ruins of an old mill 
erected in 1843. We come to a sort of 
corduroy path, where some enterprising land- 
owner has placed logs across the trail, with 
the object of facilitating travel. It is not a 
very decided improvement on nature, how- 
ever, for the steps are too far apart for 
comfort. 

Summer cottages are scattered along the 
trail, perched on the hillside, and placed in 
the most advantageous position to gain a view 
of the bay, or on slightly higher ground, 
where they peek over the tops of the trees 
into the valley below. 

After a stifl climb we reach the top of the 
last range of hills and begin our descent into 
the valley, where Muir Woods nestles between 
the hills at the foot of Mount Tamalpais, in 
the beautiful Sequoia Canon. We look away 
to the right and can see the heavy clouds en- 



MUIR WOODS 



89 



velop the summit of the mountain, but the 
highest stands above the clouds, and the sun 
touches its stately crest with golden splendor. 

The forest always has a 
weird fascination for me, 
with its soft whisperings, 
as if the trees were con 
fiding secrets to each 
other. One can become 
intimately acquainted 
with it, and learn to 
love its quiet soli- 
tude, only by living 
in or near it, and 
wandering at will 
through its track- 
less , leaf-carpeted 
aisles. Your eyes 
must be trained to 
constant watching, 
you must learn to be 
a close observer, to 
note the flowers, vines, 
and tangled shrubbery 
that are seldom men- 
tioned by botanists, and 
your ear must be tuned to 




COMRADES 



90 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

catch the elfin music that is heard within the 
confines of the forest. You cannot travel a 
rod under the trees without being watched by 
the small forest inhabitants, who regard you 
with suspicion, and peer at you from under 
decaying logs or leafy covert like self- 
appointed detectives. 

Muir Woods comprises nearly three hun- 
dred acres, the principal trees being laurel, 
fir, oak, redwood, and madrone, of which the 
giant redwood (Sequoia) predominates. The 
redwoods in Muir Woods are thousands of 
years old, and rise from two to three hundred 
feet in air. The bark is from one to two feet 
in thickness, of a cinnamon color, and the 
base of the largest trees from twenty-five to 
thirty feet in diameter. A clear and cold 
mountain brook runs through the forest, and 
ferns grow in rich profusion along its margin, 
some of them reaching a height of six feet. 

One cannot but note the profound quiet of 
the forest, as if these mighty trees that had 
withstood the storms of centuries were afraid 
their secrets might be wrested from them. 

In some past ages fire has sv/ept through 
the forest, laying some of these giants low, 
but other trees have sprung from their charred 




AMONG THE REDWOODS 



MUIR WOODS 93 

Stumps, and rear their straight trunks and 
green-crowned heads hundreds of feet above 
the surrounding foliage. These stately trees 
have grown and flourished like Solomon's 
Temple with no sound of woodman's axe to 
mar the quiet solemnity of this primeval 
forest. One stands in awe in the presence of 
these wonderful sequoias, the greatest of trees, 
and we converse in low tones, as if standing 
in the presence of spirits of bygone ages. 

Muir Woods was accepted by the United 
States government as a national monument in 
1908, by special proclamation of President 
Theodore Roosevelt, and was named in honor 
of John Muir, the celebrated California 
naturalist. 

There is no place in California where one 
can more profitably spend a day in the enjoy- 
ment of the wonderful beauties of nature than 
in this grove of giant redwoods. 




WHERE once the Indian's canoe 
roamed o'er the bay, 
With silent motion, sped by warrior's hand ; 
The sea gulls wheel and turn in columns gray. 
And on the beach the miners' cabins stand; 

Now, white-sailed ships sail outward with the 
tide. 

The stately ocean liners lead the van; 
And iron warships anchor side by side, 

With sister ships from China and Japan. 



Italian fishing boats with lateen sails go by. 
To cast their lines outside the Golden Gate; 

And ferryboats their ceaseless traffic ply. 
From mole to mole, from early morn till 
late. 



98 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

And so the march of commerce takes its way, 
And every clime contributes of its store. 

Where once the Indian's tepee held its sway, 
Now stands the Golden City on the shore. 




7 



IH tarn TQWH 



^m^ 



^ 





^ 



£^^ 




m cam Town 



vk7>..- "^ 






- ■ "■ ■"- 'il'~^"TnTMT-T~^-| —-— - -jif^ 




IF you are a tourist, making your first visit 
to San Francisco, you will inquire at 
once for Chinatown, the settlement of the 
Celestial Kingdom, dropped down, as it were, 
in the very heart of a big city; a locality 
where you are as far removed from anything 
American as if you were in Hongkong or 
Foochow. Chinatown is only about two 
blocks wide by eight blocks long; yet in this 
small area from ten to fifteen thousand 
Chinese live, and cling with all the tenacity 
of the race to their Oriental customs and 
native dress. They are as clean as a new pin 
about their person, but how they can keep so 
immaculate amid such careless and not over- 
clean surroundings is a mystery not to be 
solved by a white man. 

For a few dollars a guide will conduct a 



102 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

party through Chinatown, and point out all 
the places of interest; but we preferred to 
act for ourselves in this capacity, and saunter 
from place to place as our fancy dictated. 
Stores of all kinds line both sides of Grant 
Avenue, formerly called Dupont, where all 
kinds of Chinese merchandise are displayed 
in profusion. At one place we stopped to 
examine some most exquisite ivory carvings, 
as delicate in tracery as frost on a window 
pane. Next we lingered before a shop where 
the women of our party went into raptures 
over the exquisite gowns and the beautiful 
needlework displayed. Here are shown 
padded silks of the most delicate shades, on 
which deft fingers have embroidered the 
ever-present Chinese stork and cherry blos- 
soms, as realistic as if painted with an artist's 
brush. 

That peculiar building just across the way 
is the Kow Nan Low Restaurant, resplendent 
with dragons and lanterns of every shape and 
size suspended above and about the doorway. 

If you are fond of chop suey, or bird's-nest 
pudding, and are not too fastidious as to its 
ingredients, you may enjoy a dinner fit for a 
mandarin. 



IxN CHINATOWN 



103 



We stop before a barber shop and watch 
the queer process of shaving the head and 
braiding the queue. The barber does not 
invite inspection, as the curtains are partly 
drawn, but we peep over the top and look 
with interest at the queer process of tonsorial 
achievement, much to the disgust of the barber 
and his customer, if the expression on their 
faces can be taken as an index of their 
thoughts. 

Then to the drug 
store, the market, 
the shoeshop, and a 
dozen other places, 
to finally bring up 
where all the tourists 
do— at the ''Mar- 
shall Field's" of 
Chinatown, Sing 
Fat's, a truly mar- 
velous place, where 
one can spend hours 
looking over the 
countless objects of 
interest. 

One of the pleas- 
ures of Chinatown 

A CHINESE SHOEMAKER 




104 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



is to see the children of rich and poor on the 
street, dressed in their Oriental costumes, 
looking like tiny yellow flowers, as they pick 
their way daintily along the walk, or are car- 
ried in the arms of the happy father — never 
the mother. If you would make the father 
smile, show an interest in the boy he is carry- 
ing so proudly. 

To gamble is a Chinaman's second nature. 
Games of fan-tan and pie-gow are constantly 
in operation; and the police either tolerate 
or are powerless to stop them. Tong wars 
are of frequent occurrence, crime and its 
punishment being so mixed up that an out- 
sider cannot unravel them. The San Fran- 
cisco police have struggled with the question, 
but have finally left the Chinese to settle their 
own affairs after their own fashion. Opium 
dens flourish as a matter of course, for opium 
and Chinese are synonymous words. You can 
tell an opium fiend as far as you can see him; 
his face looks like wet parchment stretched 
over a skull and dried, making a truly grue- 
some sight. Every ship that comes into the 
bay from the Orient is searched for opium, 
and quantities of it are found hidden away 
under the planking, or in other places less 




IN CHINATOWN 



IN CHINATOWN 107 

likely to be detected by the sharp-eyed offi- 
cials. When found it is at once confiscated. 

The Chinese are an extremely superstitious 
people, and it is very difficult to get a photo- 
graph of them, for they flee from the camera 
man as from the wrath to come. When you 
think you are about to get a good picture, and 
are ready to press the button, he either covers 
his face, or turns his back to you. The writer 
was congratulating himself on the picture he 
was about to take of four Chinese women in 
their native costumes, and was just going to 
make the exposure, when four Chinamen who 
were watching him deliberately stepped in 
front of the camera, completely spoiling the 
negative. The younger generation, and espe- 
cially the girls, will occasionally pose for you, 
and a truly picturesque group they make in 
their queer mannish dress of bright colors, as 
they laugh and chatter in their odd but 
musical jargon. 

A few years ago you could not persuade a 
Chinaman to talk into a telephone, for, as one 
of them said, ''No can see talkee him," mean- 
ing he could not see the speaker. Another 
said, ''Debil talkee, me no likee him," but 
now this is all changed. Some there are who 



108 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

Still cling to their old superstitions, but they 
are few. The march of commerce levels all 
prejudices, and the telephone is an established 
fact in Chinatown. They have their own ex- 
change, a small building built in Chinese 
style, and their own operators. Even the San 
Francisco telephone book has one section 
devoted to them, and printed in Chinese 
characters. And so civilization goes march- 
ing on, the old order changeth, and even the 
Chinaman must of necessity conform to our 
ways. 

But the Chinatown of to-day is not the 
Chinatown existent before the great disaster 
of 1906. It has changed, and that for the 
better, better both for the city and the 
Chinaman. 

Mr. Arnold Genthe, in his Old China- 
town, says : 'T think we first glimpsed the real 
man through our gradual understanding of 
his honesty. American merchants learned 
that none need ever ask a note of a Chinaman 
in any commercial transaction; his word was 
his bond." And while they still have their 
joss houses, worship their idols, gamble, and 
smoke opium, they are their own worst 
enemies; they do not bother the white men, 



IN CHINATOWN 109 

and are generally considered a law unto 
themselves. 

As we pass on down Grant Avenue we meet 
a crowd gathered around a bulletin board, 
where hundreds of red and yellow posters are 
displayed. All are excited, chattering like 
magpies, as they discuss the latest bulletin of 
a Tong war, or some other notice of equal 
interest; and here we leave them, and China- 
town also, passing over the line out of the 
precincts of the Celestial, and into our own 
^^God's country." 




t:A 



.} ;-■" 







1^^ 



n a Glass-botiom 
Boai . , 



■^ 








■■'.■■■ -J i?l js' 




w 



f? 



9 "^-"^HA 



.^±^Lh^ 



n a Glass -bottom 
Boat 





ABOUT one hundred miles south of San 
Francisco lies the beautiful Monterey 
Bay. Here hundreds of fishing boats of all 
styles and sizes tug at their anchors, awaiting 
the turn of the tide to sail out and cast their 
lines for baracuta, yellowtail, and salmon, 
which abound in these waters to gladden the 
heart of the sturdy fisherman. One may 
forego the pleasure of fishing if so inclined, 
and take a sail in the glass-bottom boat, view- 
ing through its transparent bottom the won- 
ders of the mighty deep. 

There were fifteen in our party, ranged 
along each side of the boat. Curtains were 
let down from the outside, practically cutting 
off all outside light and making the bottom 
of the sea as light as day. Our boatman in- 
formed us, after we were well under way, that 



114 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

we were approaching the place called ''The 
Garden of the Sea Gods," one of the most 
beautiful submarine views on the coast. He 
did not exaggerate, as we were soon to know, 
for the scene was truly wonderful, and rightly 
named. All kinds of sea life began to pass 
before our eyes, like the fast changing figures 
of a kaleidoscope. Here the delicate sea moss 
lay like a green carpet, dotted here and there 
with a touch of purple, making fantastic 
figures; a place where the sea fairies might 
dance and hold their revels, as the peasant 
girls of Normandy dance on the village green. 
Close beside this fairy playground great 
gray rocks rose like sentinels, as if to warn 
off trespassers. Clinging to their rugged 
sides were starfish of all sizes and colors, 
varying from white to red, with all the inter- 
vening shades. Sea urchins, those porcupines 
of the deep, with long, prickly spines, looking 
like a lady's pincushion, were in profusion, 
and clung tenaciously to every rock. Now 
our boat glides over a cafion whose rugged 
sides extend away down into the depths, and 
on either side the verdure grows tier on tier, 
like a veritable forest. We wonder what 
denizens of the deep are lurking under the 



IN A GLASS-BOTTOM BOAT 



115 



shadows and amid the stately aisles, to dart 
out on the unsuspecting victim. 

On we glide over the beautiful sea anemone, 
half animal, half vegetable, with its colors 
as variegated as a rose garden. Seaweed and 




THE BREAKING WAVES 



kelp wave to us as we pass, long-stemmed sea 
grasses moving by the action of the waves, 
like a feather boa worn by some sea nymph, 
twist and turn like a thing alive; tall, feathery 
plumes, as white as snow, or as green as 
emerald, toss to and fro, and make obeisance 
to old Neptune. Sea onions, with stems 



116 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

thirty feet long, and bulbous air-filled sacks, 
reach out their long snaky arms, like an 
octopus, and woe to the swimmer who be- 
comes entangled in their slimy folds. 

We pass over a school of rock cod — large, 
lazy fellows — who take life easy, while small, 
slim tommy-cod dart in and out among the 
rocks or hide under the mosses. Steel heads, 
as spotted as an adder, glide close to the glass 
as if to investigate, then dart away pursued 
by some larger fish, who look upon them as 
their lawful prey. 

Over by that rock a hermit crab has taken 
possession of a sea snail's shell, and set up 
housekeeping; with body partly hidden he 
waves his long bony tentacles, while his beady 
eyes stare at us from the doorway of his home. 

Now a sea grotto passes beneath us, mar- 
velously beautiful with its frostlike tracery. 
Its arched openings are hung with a tapestry 
of pink sea moss, which swings back and 
forth to the action of the waves, as if moved 
by some invisible hand. We get a glimpse, 
in passing, of the interior view with its white, 
pebbly floor, in which the basket starfish have 
possession — a fitting reception room for sea 
nymph or mermaid. Pillars of stone incrusted 



IN A GLASS-BOTTOM BOAT 119 

with barnacles and periwinkles rise all 
around, while long tendrils of sea ferns wave 
like banners around their base. 

Our boatman tells us that we are about to 
pass from "The Garden of the Sea Gods" 
into ''Heirs Half-Acre." What a change in 
a moment's time! A desert of rock tumbled 
in a heterogeneous mass, all shapes and sizes, 
as if thrown by some giant hand into grotesque 
and fantastic shapes. No wonder they gave it 
such a gruesome name. 

In such a place one would expect to see the 
bleaching bones of sailors, lost at sea, or the 
broken and dismantled hulk of a galleon, half 
buried in the sand. A shadow crosses our 
vision, and slowly there comes to our sight a 
shark, that scavenger of the deep, a fitting 
spot for such as he to come upon the stage. 
Slowly he passes, turning partly on his side, 
showing the cruel mouth with rows of serrated 
teeth. His eyes look at us as if in anger at 
being cheated of his prey, then on he glides 
like a specter, and with a flirt of his tail as 
he waves us adieu, he passes out of sight. We 
breathe a sigh of thanksgiving that the boat 
is between us and this hideous, cruel mon- 
ster, and another sigh of regret as our boat 



120 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



touches the wharf, to think that the trip is 
so soon ended. Truly, ^'those who go down 
into the sea in ships" have wonders revealed 
to them such as were never dreamed of in 
the mind of man. 



\ 



Fog on 




the Bay 



-f' 



Fog on 




the Bay 



ONE could hardly find a more perfect 
morning than this in early March. 
The sun was heralded over the hills in a blaze 
of glory; meadow larks strung like beads on 
a telegraph wire were calling their cheery 
notes, and robins were singing their overture 
to the morning sun. 

Boarding the Key Route train, I soon ar- 
rived at the Oakland mole, to find it crowded 
with a restless tide of humanity, waiting 
impatiently for the overdue boat. Each arriv- 
ing train added to the congestion, until the 
building between the tracks and the gangway 
was crowded with anxious commuters. 

Finally, after much speculation as to the 
delay, the tardy boat arrived, and a steady 
stream of people flowed by the three gang- 
ways to the upper and lower decks. The last 
straggler was on board and the gangplank 



124 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

lifted, reminding me of the stories I had read 
of raising the drawbridge across the moat of 
some ancient feudal castle, and leaving the 
mole with its imitation portcullis behind we 
steamed out into the bay. The sun shone from 
a cloudless sky, and there was not enough 
wind to straighten out the pennant from the 
masthead. 

We were hardly opposite Yerba Buena 
Island, however, when we ran into a fog that 
completely engulfed us. To plunge from 
bright sunlight into a blanket of gray mist so 
dense that one cannot see fifty feet in any 
direction, has just enough spice of danger 
about it to make it interesting. It was like 
being cut off from the world, with nothing in 
sight but this clinging curtain enveloping one 
like a damp cloud, settling like frost on every- 
thing it touches, and glittering like diamond 
dust. 

An undercurrent of anxiety pervaded the 
ship, for we were running with no landmark 
to guide us, and with only the captain's knowl- 
edge of the bay and the tides to bring us 
safely through. 

Passengers crowded to the rails, straining 
their eyes into the dense smother, while 




FOG ON THE BAY 



FOG ON THE BAY 127 

whistles were blowing on all sides. The 
shrill shriek of the government tug, the 
hoarse bellow of the ocean liner, and the fog 
whistle on Yerba Buena Island, all joined in 
a strident warning, sending their intermittent 
blast over the water. 

Our engines were slowed down to half- 
speed, or just enough to give her steerage way, 
while the anxious captain peered from the 
wheelhouse with one hand grasping the signal 
cord, ready for any emergency. 

The sea gulls that in clear weather follow 
the boats back and forth across the bay by the 
hundreds, were entirely absent, except for one 
sturdy bird that, evidently bewildered, had 
lost its way in the fog, and had alighted on 
the flagpole as if for protection. 

Suddenly across our bows a darker spot 
appeared, which gradually assumed shape, 
and a Southern Pacific boat loomed like a 
specter from the smother of fog. The size 
was greatly enlarged as seen through the veil 
of mist, and the dense smoke that poured from 
her funnel settled around her like a pall, 
adding greatly to its weird appearance. 

Our captain was on the watch for just such 
an occurrence, and three short, sharp blasts 



128 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

from our whistle notified the oncoming boat 
that we had stopped our engines. But the 
tide was running strong, and we drew closer 
and closer together, until we involuntarily 
held our breath, and nerves were strung to 
the highest tension. The great screws churned 
the water into foam as we slowly backed away 
from each other, like gladiators testing each 
other's strength, and the Southern Pacific 
boat vanished into the fog like a ghost, swal- 
lowed up, as if wiped from the face of the 
waters, sending back its deep bellowing 
whistle as if bidding an angry defiance to the 
elements. 

Slowly we moved forward, feeling every 
inch of the way, like one groping in the dark, 
passing boat after boat without accident. 
One, a three-masted schooner, loaded with 
lumber, came so near that we could toss a 
stone on board, and a woman who stood in 
the bow waved a large tin horn at us, and 
then applied herself to blowing it most 
industriously. 

At last the bells on the piers at the ferry 
came floating across the waters, faint at first, 
but growing louder as we advanced, and 
never did bells sound sweeter or more wel- 



FOG ON THE BAY 129 

come. I imagine they were thrice welcome 
to our captain, for they gave him the direct 
course to our anchorage. Slower and yet 
slower we moved, our screw scarcely making 
a ripple on the water, for many other boats 
were cautiously feeling their way to their 
respective berths, and we must use all our 
caution not to run foul of them. 

At last came the cry from some one, 
'There's the light," and flashing out from the 
pier, its electric rays cutting its way through 
the wall of fog, shone that intermittent flame, 
and we knew that only a few feet away was 
the dock and safety. 

As the crowd hurried from the boat, anx- 
ious to reach their several places of business 
without further delay, many turned and 
looked up at the wheelhouse, to see the man 
whose nerve and faithfulness to duty had 
piloted us safe to port. In that blue- 
uniformed figure, still standing with hand 
upon the wheel, we saw a person boyish in 
appearance, but every inch a man. 




''•'■'■^^'^■'■'■''^^^■•■■■■' ■>■■■'■■■ •>■:•'•■•-/ 




NORTH from the ferry building, and 
near the foot of Powell Street, is 
one of the old landmarks of San Francisco, 
known as Meiggs' Wharf. 

In the early sixties an old saloon was 
located on the shore end of this wharf, and 
connected with it was a museum which con- 
tained many quaint curios from other lands, 
some of them of considerable value. 

The occupant of this saloon never allowed 
the place to be cleaned, and for years the 
spiders held undisputed possession, weaving 
their webs without fear of molestation, until 
every nook and corner was filled with their 
tapestry, and from ceiling and rafter hung 
long festoons of gossamer threads that swayed 
back and forth in the breeze. It was a place 
much visited by tourists, and a trip to San 
Francisco was not considered complete with- 
out visiting this ''Cobweb Museum," a name 
bestowed upon it by its many guests. 



134 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

It is said that Robert Louis Stevenson 
loved to visit this wharf and listen to the tales 
told by the hardy sailors, and that out of them 
he wove some of his most delightful South 
Sea Island stories. 

Meiggs died in Peru in 1877, where he 
fled, a fugitive from justice, and has long 
since been forgotten except by the older resi- 
dents. The wharf still remains, however, 
though more familiarly known to the people 
of this generation as ''Fisherman's Wharf"; 
but the old cobweb saloon and museum are 
things of the past. 

From here the Italian fishing boats leave 
for their fishing grounds out beyond the 
heads, and if you visit the wharf in the early 
morning you may see hundreds of these boats 
sail out past Land's End, and through the 
Golden Gate, making a picture worthy of an 
artist's brush. 

When the sun comes flashing over the hills, 
and the dancing waves glisten with its rosy 
light, then the waters of the bay take on the 
color of the amethyst. Go then to Meiggs' 
Wharf, and see the fishing boats start out 
with lateen sail full set; hear the "Yo heave 
ho" of the swarthy Italian fishermen, as they 



> 

I— I 

> 

I— I 

I— I 

O 

td 
O 
> 
H 




MEIGGS WHARF 



187 



set their three-cornered, striped sail to catch 
the breeze, and imagine yourself on the far- 
famed bay of Naples. Your imagination does 
not suffer by comparison, as San Francisco, 
like Naples, is built upon the hills, and Mount 




DRYING THE NETS 



Tamalpais across the bay, with wreaths of 
fog floating around its summit, might well be 
taken for Mount Vesuvius. 

Out through the portals of the Golden Gate 
they sail, like brown-winged pelicans, to drop 
their nets and cast their lines into the mighty 
deep; but these picturesque boats are fast 
giving way to more modern conveyances, and 



138 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

the fussy motorboat, that is not dependent 
upon wind or tide, will soon relegate the 
lateen sail to total obscurity. 

Go again to the wharf in the late afternoon, 
and watch these same boats come laboring in 
against the tide, sunk deep in the water with 
their day's catch. See them unload, and 
spread the nets to dry, and if you can find one 
of these grizzled old salts ofif duty, and he 
feels so inclined, he will tell you (between 
puffs on his short, black pipe) strange and 
interesting stories of adventure at sea or of 
shipwreck on lonely island. 

Then, as the sails are furled, and all made 
snug aloft and below, and the boats bob up 
and down on the long swells, straining at 
their moorings, the sun sinks down behind the 
ocean, leaving the wharf in shadow. The 
lights begin to gleam in the city, the tower of 
the ferry building gleams like a beacon, out- 
lined with its thousands of incandescent 
lights, and the ferryboat takes us across the 
bay and home, to dream of queer-shaped 
sails, of ancient mariners, and the '^Golden 
City'' on the bay. 




The Stake and Rider Fence 



^^0^m&^mmr-- 




The Stake and Rider Fence 




I LOVE to let my fancy go wandering 
where it will, 
To the happy days of boyhood, to the meadow 

and the hill ; 
To the brooks and quiet places, to the woods 

that seemed immense. 
But they always linger fondly at the stake- 
and-rider fence. 

Here, cicadas sing their loudest, and the 

crickets draw the bow. 
And the 'hoppers and the locusts join the 

chorus, soft and low; 
And you hear the bees a humming like a fiddle 

with one string. 
While the air just seems to vibrate with a 

soothing kind of ring. 



142 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

There the squirrel scolds and chatters as he 

runs along the rail, 
And you hear the rain-crow calling, and the 

whistle of the quail; 
And the catbird, and the blue jay, scold with 

vigor most intense. 
As they build among the branches by the 

stake-and-rider fence. 

There grew the tasseled milkweed with its 
bursting silken pods, 

And the stately, waving branches of the yel- 
low goldenrod ; 

The mullein stalk and asters, with teasels 
growing dense, 

God's garden, in the angle of the stake-and- 
rider fence. 

It was homely, but I loved it, and I wouldn't 

trade, would you? 
For all the hothouse beauties that a florist 

ever knew. 
Yes, I'd give up earthly honors, and count it 

recompense. 
Just to wander through the meadow by the 

stake-and-rider fence. 




M-9- 




O^Ji t 



THE beautiful California days, with 
warm sunshine tempered by the cool 
winds from the bay, are not surpassed in any 
country under the sun. But if the days are 
perfect, the brilliant moonlight nights lose 
nothing by comparison. 

To tramp the hills and woods, or climb the 
rugged mountains by day, is a joy to the 
nature lover. But the same trip by moon- 
light has an interest and charm entirely its 
own, and mysteries of nature are revealed un- 
dreamed of at noonday. 

The wind, that has run riot during the 
day, has blown itself out by evening, and the 
birds have gone to sleep with heads tucked 
under their wings, or settled with soft breasts 
over nestlings that twitter soft ''good nights" 
to mother love. The dark shadows of evening 



146 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

Steal the daylight, and canon and ravine lose 
their rugged outlines, blending into soft, 
shadowy browns and purples. The moon 
peeps over the hilltop, the stars come out one 
by one, the day is swallowed up in night, and 
the moonlight waves its pale wand over the 
landscape. 

In the deep woods it flickers through the 
branches, mottling the ground with silver 
patches, and throwing into grand relief the 
trunks of trees, like sentinels on duty. It 
touches the little brook as softly as a baby's 
kiss, and transforms it into a sheen of gold. 
It drops its yellow light upon a bed of ferns 
until each separate frond stands out like a 
willow plume nodding up and down in the 
mellow gleam. A flowering dogwood bathed 
in its ethereal light shimmers like a bridal 
veil adorning a wood nymph. It lays its 
gentle touch on the waterfall, transforming it 
into a torrent of molten silver, and causing 
each drop to glisten like topaz under its witch- 
ing light. 

Overhead fleecy clouds, like white-winged 
argosies, sail high amid the blue, or, finer 
spun, like a lady's veil, are drawn, gauzelike, 
across the sky, through which the stars peep 



R 



n 

O 



o 
o 

M 

H 




MOONLIGHT 149 

out with twinkling brilliancy. The scent of 
new-mown hay laden with falling dew comes 
floating up from the valley with an intoxicat- 
ing sweetness, a sweetness to which the far- 
famed perfume of Arabia is not to be 
compared. 

The crickets, those little black minstrels of 
the night, chirp under the log upon which 
you are resting, and the katydids repeat over 
and over again ^'Katy's" wonderful achieve- 
ment, though just what this amazing conquest 
was no one has been able to discover. The 
cicadas join the chorus with their strident 
voices, their notes fairly tumbling over each 
other in their exuberance, and in their hurry 
to sing their solos. Tree toads tune up for 
the evening concert, a few short notes at first, 
like a violinist testing the strings, then, the 
pitch ascertained, the air fairly vibrates with 
their rhapsody. 

Fireflies light their tiny lanterns and flash 
out their signals, like beacon lights in the 
darkness, while, ringing up from the valley, 
the call of the whip-poor-will echoes clear 
and sweet, each syllable pronounced as dis- 
tinctly as if uttered by a human voice. In a 
tree overhead a screech owl emits his evening 



150 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



call in a clear, vibrating tremolo, as if to warn 
the smaller birds that he is on watch, and 
considers them his lawful prey. The night 
hawk wheels in his tireless flight, graceful as 
a thistledown, soaring through space without 
a seeming motion of the wings, emitting a 
whirring sound from wings and tail feathers, 
and darting, now and again, with the swift- 
ness of light after some insect that comes 
under his keen vision. 

If you remain quite still, you may per- 
chance detect a cotton-tail peeping at you 
from some covert. Watch him closely, and 
do not move a muscle, and when his curiosity 
is somewhat appeased, see him thump the 
ground with his hind foot, trying to scare 
you into revealing your identity. If not dis- 
turbed, his fear will vanish, and he will gam- 
bol almost at your feet. 

You are fortunate indeed, if, on your 
nightly rambles, you find one of the large 
night moths winging its silent flight over the 
moonlit glade, resting for an instant on a 
mullein-stalk, then dancing away in his 
erratic flight, like some pixy out for a lark. 

O the witchery of moonlight nights, when 
tree, shrub, and meadow are bathed in a 



MOONLIGHT 



151 



sheen of silver; when lovers walk arm in 
arm, and in soft whisperings build air castles 
for the days to come, when the honeysuckle 
shall twine around their doorway, and the 
moonlight rest like a benediction on their own 
home nest; when you sit on the porch with 
day's work done, and the fireflies dance over 
the lawn, and the voice of the whip-poor- 
will floats up from the meadow, and you 
dream dreams, and weave strange fancies, 
under the witching spell of the silver moon- 
light! 






oujO'^P^tnalpais 



-'^'^^"3 






^~ 















Moup^ 




THERE are mountains and mountains, 
each one with an individuality all 
its own. There are mountains whose lofty 
peaks are covered with perpetual snow, like 
a bridal robe adorned with jewels, with the 
rising sun kissing each separate fold into 
glowing splendor; mountains whose rugged 
summits rise far above the timber line, somber 
and imposing, with fleecy clouds floating 
round the rocky pinnacles like fine spun silver. 

Mount Tamalpais is not so lofty as Pike's 
Peak, or Mount Hood, but what it loses in 
altitude it makes up in splendor, and a trip 
to its summit, over the crookedest railroad in 
the world, oflfers a view that is unsurpassed. 

Leaving the ferry building, we have a 
delightful ride on the bay, passing close to 
Alcatraz Island, where the military prison is 
located, with a view of Fort Point and Fort 



156 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

Baker, passing near the United States Quar- 
antine Station on Angel Island, and arrive at 
Sausalito, perched on the hillside like some 
hamlet on the Rhine; then by rail to Mill 
Valley, a beautiful little town nestling at the 
foot of the mountain like a Swiss village. 
Here we change to the observation train drawn 
by a mountain-climbing traction engine, and 
begin the climb. The ascent is a gradual one, 
the steepest grade being a trifle over seven 
per cent, while the train twists and turns 
around two hundred and sixty curves from 
the base to the summit. We enter a forest 
of the giant redwoods, which, enormous in 
girth, and three hundred feet high, have defied 
the elements for thousands of years. Crossing 
a cafion filled with madrones, oaks, and 
laurels, we look down upon a panorama of 
exceeding beauty. At a certain point the 
train seems about to jump off into space, but 
it makes a sharp curve around a jutting cliff 
on the edge of the cafion, and a broader view 
bursts upon us, a view unparalleled for its 
magnificence. 

About half way up we reach the double 
bowknot, where the road parallels itself five 
times in a short distance, and where one can 




MOUNT TAMALPAIS 



MOUNT TAMALPAIS 



159 



change cars and go down the other side of 
the mountain to Muir Woods. We stay by 
the train, and toil upward, over Slide Gulch, 
through McKinley Cut, and at last, with 
aching but beauty-filled eyes, we reach the 
summit. From the top of most mountains 
surrounding peaks shut off the view to some 
extent, but from the summit of Mount Ta- 
malpais there is an unbroken view. Rising 
as it does almost from the shores of the 
bay, there are miles and miles of uninter- 
rupted view. Far be- 
low us the ocean and 
the bay shimmer like 
a mirror, and majes- 
tic ocean liners, out- 
ward bound, look 
like toy boats. To 
the left Mount 
Hamilton rises out 
of the purple haze, 
while to the right 
Mount Diablo 
pushes its great bulk 
above the clouds. 

It is claimed that 
twenty or more cities 

AN UNINTERRUPTED VIEW 




160 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

and towns can be seen from the top of Mount 
Tamalpais. Whether this be true or not, I 
cannot say, but it is certain that we saw a good 
many, near and far, and it is also true that on 
a clear day the Sierras, one hundred and fifty 
miles distant, can be plainly seen. 

From the hotel near the summit one gets 
an unsurpassed view of San Francisco Bay, 
the Cliff House, and the Farallone Islands; 
and if you are fortunate enough to see the sun 
sink behind the ocean, between the portals of 
the Golden Gate, you will never forget the 
sight. All the colors of the artist's palette are 
thrown across the sky, changing from red to 
orange, from orange to purple; each white- 
capped wave is touched with a rosy phos- 
phorescence, and scintillates like a thousand 
jewels. 

To ascend Mount Tamalpais on foot, fol- 
lowing the railroad, is not a difficult task, and 
is well worth the effort, for then you can take 
time to enjoy the varied views that burst upon 
your vision at each turn of the road, and 
linger as long as you like over each choice 
bit of scenery. As you descend you feel that 
the day upon the mountain has been a day 
of vision and of beauty. 



Bear Creek 





OVER the second range of hills that shut 
in San Francisco Bay on the east is 
a delightful little trout brook known as Bear 
Creek. With my camera, a frugal lunch, 
and an assortment of trout flies carefully 
stowed away in my knapsack, I started in 
quest of this little stream that follows the 
windings of the cafion. 

If bears had ever inhabited this locality, 
and posed as its godfathers, they had long 
since disappeared, and many years had passed 
since they had slaked their thirst with its 
sparkling waters. Only the name remained 
to remind one of other days, and one name is 
as good as another to a trout brook. 

My object was not so much to tempt the 
speckled trout with gaudy fly from quiet pool 
or swirling riffle, as to follow the windings 



164 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

of the stream, and spy out the quiet nooks, 
where the sun comes filtering through the 
trees, dappling the water; or resting in the 
shadows where the thick foliage defies its 
penetrating rays, and spreads a somber hue 
on mossy rock or bed of ferns. At one place, 
perhaps a rod from the margin of the brook, 
was a sort of amphitheater among the trees, 
where nature had been prodigal with her 
colors, touching the woods in spots here and 
there with ocher, umber, and vermilion. She 
had even brushed with scarlet many of the 
shrubs and vines, until they glowed with a 
warm color against the green background. 

The pine trees had shed their needles, 
making a carpet soft as velvet, where wood- 
land elves might revel or the god Pan practice 
upon his pipes, laughing nymphs dancing to 
the music. 

Is there anything in nature more com- 
panionable than a mountain brook? It has 
its moods both grave and gay, and is as fickle 
as a schoolgirl. At times it chuckles at you 
in a musical undertone as you walk along its 
banks, and again it seems to warn you from 
trespassing on its preserves, scolding in a 
shrill falsetto as it dodges under the roots of 



BEAR CREEK 



165 



a fallen tree, or dives among the lilypads, as 
if to hide from your sight. But when it swirls 
down the eddy, and comes to rest by an over- 
hanging rock, where the shadows are dark 
and the water deep, its song is hushed, as if 
in fear of disturbing the wary trout that lie 
in hiding in the depths of the pool. 

This is a likely place for fish, and I put my 
rod together and cast my flies, dropping them 
as lightly as a thistle- - 
down, and using all my 
skill, but no trout rise to 
my lure; this is evi- 
dently their day off, or 
my flies are too palpable 
a subterfuge to tempt a 
self-respecting trout. 

Sitting on a log, one 
end of which projects 
over the stream, I watch 
a dragon-fly, or darning 
needle, float over the 
water, his flight so swift 
my eyes can hardly fol- 
low it. At last it stops 
in front of me, perfect- 
ly poised for a second, 




WHERE THE SHADOWS ARE DARK 



166 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

but with wings in rapid motion, then darts 
away to perform its acrobatic feat of standing 
on its head on a lilypad, or to feast on the 
gnats and other insects that it captures while 
on the wing. Truly it is rightly named a 
dragon. 

The whirligig-beetles, those social little 
black fellows, gather in large numbers and 
chase each other round and round in graceful 
curves, skating over the water as if enjoying 
a game of tag. 

Leaving the beetles at their game, I come 
to a place where the brook seems to hesitate 
on the brink of a mimic waterfall, as if afraid 
to take the dive, but like a boy unwilling to 
take a dare, it plunges over the brink to the 
pool below, with gurgling laughter, in a per- 
fect ecstasy of bravado. 

A leaf drops from an overhanging bough, 
falling so lightly that it barely makes a ripple, 
then sails away like a mimic ship to far-off 
ports, dancing along at every caprice of the 
fitful current; only to be stranded at last, cast 
away like a shipwrecked galleon, on some 
distant island. 

In the shadows the brook seems to have a 
more solemn tone, in keeping with its somber 




ON BEAR CREEK 



BEAR CREEK 169 



surroundings, singing its song to the white- 
petaled saxifrage that peeps out at it over the 
bed of maidenhair fern, or the bright-leaved 
water cress; then flashing out into the sun- 
light, and, like a boy out of school, romping 
and laughing in utter abandon. 

Flowering currants, with rose-pink clusters 
of blossoms, line the banks, scattering their 
fragrance far and near. The rancorous cry 
of the catbird, and the rattling call of the 
kingfisher, that feathered spirit of the stream, 
are left behind; the clear flutelike notes of 
the meadow lark take their place, and the 
hills, covered with wild flowers, roll back 
from its margin, as if to make room for its 
uninterrupted flow. 

The Western bluebird floats across the 
meadow like a flashing sapphire, and the lark- 
sparrow pours forth his melody, as he teeters 
up and down on a weed stalk. 

But at night the brook is heard at its best, 
when it performs its symphonies for the 
flickering moonlight that nestles upon its 
bosom, and the stars that reflect their lamps on 
its surface. 

Make your camp on Its margin and when 
your fire burns low, and you draw your 



170 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

blanket around you, with the mountain brook 
singing its lullaby, and the vesper sparrow 
chanting its melodious vesper hymn, you can 
say with the psalmist, "I will both lay me 
down in peace and sleep," and you might add, 
"lulled by the song of the mountain brook." 




of the ReeP; 







of the Ree 







hum 



■^..r^&^^: 



'^■j:^^m^^ 



CLOSE by the edge of the lily pads, 
there's a flash and swirl of spray, 
And the line draws taut, and the rod dips 

low, and I sing as he speeds away; 
And I whir and click with the joy of life, as 

the line runs in and out. 
And I laugh with glee as I reel him in, the 
gamy and speckled trout. 

And again the silken line is cast, and the fly 

like a feather glides, 
Close to the rock where the water's deep, and 

the wary black bass hides. 
There's a strike and a run as the game is 

hooked, and his rush with a snub is met. 
But he yields at last to the steady strain, and 

is brought to the landing net. 



174 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



As the sun sinks low in the western sky, and 

the shadows longer grow, 
And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight, 

and the crickets draw their bow. 
And the cat-tails wave in the gentle breeze, 

and the boat glides on apace; 
Then I reel in the line, while the bamboo rod 

is laid away in its case. 

The bass and the trout, and the wall-eyed pike, 

the pickerel and muskalonge. 
Have each and all been lost or won as I caused 

them to race or plunge, 
I'm the sportsman's friend, and a foeman bold, 

and I've filled full many a creel; 
For what would the fisherman's luck be worth 

without the song of the reel? 



The Old R o ad 




j-*^ ■'-«--(»■; 



^■"-^•'^ 






The Old Road 









■"/"■ 




o. -. 



^M.^^-\ 




-^-# ^»>^5 



THERE is an old road that I love to 
follow. If one may judge by ap- 
pearances, it is but slightly used by travelers, 
for it seems to lead nowhere, and is quite con- 
tent in its wanderings, winding through 
caiions, over hills, and down valleys. I am 
told by one who ought to know — for he is 
an old resident— that if you follow its tortuous 
course far enough, it will lead you to a town 
called Walnut Creek, but I cannot vouch for 
the truth of this assertion, as I have never 
found a town or hamlet along its winding 
course. In fact, I remember but one 
place of abode along its entire length, and 
this, a weather-beaten cottage nearly hidden 
by the pepper and acacia trees that sur- 
round it. 

It is a quaint little place, and might have 



178 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



inspired the poet to write that beautiful poem 
containing the lines, 

Let me live in a house by the side of the road, 
And be a friend to man, 

for the cooling draught passed out to me one 
hot afternoon from this house would certainly 
class the occupant as a benefactor. 

The dew was sparkling on the grass when 
I set out in the early morning, gossamer spider 
webs strung from leaf and stem glistened in 
the sunlight, and up from a tuft of grass a 
meadow lark sprang on silent wing, scattering 
his silvery notes, a paean of praise to the early 
dawn. 

A bluebird's notes blend with those of the 
song sparrow, and a robin swinging on the 
topmost branch of a eucalyptus, after a few 
short notes as a prelude, pours forth a perfect 
rhapsody of melody. 

At this place a hill encroaches upon the 
road at the right, covered thickly with under- 
brush and blackberry vines, its crest sur- 
mounted with a stately grove of eucalyptus 
trees, while on the left there is an almost per- 
pendicular drop to the valley below. So 
narrow is the road that teams can hardly pass 



THE OLD ROAD 



179 



each other. Why it should crowd itself into 
such narrow quarters when there is room to 
spare is its own secret. 

Stretching its dusty length along, it soon 
broadens out as if glad to escape from its 
cramped quarters, and glides under the wide 
spreading branches of a California buckeye, 
which stands kneedeep in the beautiful 
clarkia, with its rose-pink petals, and wand- 
like stalks of the narrow-leaved milkweed, 
with silken pods bursting with fairy sails 
ready to start out on 
unknown travels. 

Leaving the shade, 
it climbs the hill for 
a broader view of 
the surrounding 
landscape, and looks 
down on the bay on 
one side, and the 
rolling hills and val- 
leys on the other. 
Yellow buttercups 
nod to it from the 
meadow, and the 
lavender snap drag- 
ons wave their 
threadlike fingers in 

THE OLD ROAD 




180 BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 

silent greeting. Tall, stately teasels stand like 
sentinels along the way, and the balsamic tar- 
weed spreads its fragrance along the outer 
edge. 

Threading its way down a steep hill; 
through a wealth of tangled grasses; past a 
grove of live oaks, from whose twisted and 
contorted limbs the gray moss hangs in long 
festoons, by Indian paintbrush and scarlet 
bugler gleaming like sparks of fire amid the 
green and bronze foliage, it glides at last into 
a somber cafion. There a bridge spans the 
brook that gurgles its elfin song to cheer the 
dusty traveler on its way. 

The laurel, madrone, and manzanitas keep 
it company for some distance on either side, 
and a catbird mews and purrs from a clump 
of willows on the margin of the stream. A 
dozen or more yellow-winged butterflies 
gathered at a moist spot, scatter like autumn 
leaves before a gust of wind at my approach, 
dancing away on fairy wings like golden 
sunbeams. 

At a place where the road makes a bend to 
the right, and the cat-tails and rushes grow 
in profusion, a blue heron, that spirit of the 
marsh, stands grotesque and sedate, and gazes 



n 



m 

W 

K 

c 




o 

> 

o 







THE OLD ROAD 183 

with melancholy air into the water. Bull- 
frogs pipe, running the whole gamut of tones 
from treble to bass, hidden away amid the 
water grasses. Darning needles dodge in and 
out among the rushes in erratic flight, and a 
blackbird teeters up and down on a tulle stem 
while repeating over and over his pleasant 
^^O-ko-lee." 

But the road does not stop to look or listen, 
and once more it climbs the hill where the 
golden poppy basks in the sunshine, and the 
dandelions spread their yellow carpet for it 
to pass over, or, nodding silken heads scatter 
their tiny fleet of a hundred fairy balloons 
upon the wings of the summer winds. 

Down the road, whistling blithely, comes 
a slip of a boy, with fishing rod, cut from 
the adjacent thicket, over his shoulder and 
a can of bait tucked securely under his arm, 
happy as a king in anticipation of the fish he 
may never catch. At his heels trots content- 
edly a yellow dog. True companions of the 
highway are they, for no country road would 
be complete without its boy and dog, and as 
I pass them I call back, ''Good luck, my 
doughty fisherman," and the road answers — 
or was it an echo? — ''Good luck, good luck." 



184 



BYWAYS AROUND SAN FRANCISCO BAY 



But at last the shadows creep down canon 
and hillside, the soft light of evening touches 
the tops of tree and shrub with a rosy 
splendor, shading from green to gold, from 
gold to purple; and through the gathering 
dusk the road sinks into the surrounding 
gloom, toiling on in silence with only the 
stars for company, and the lights from firefly 
lanterns to guide it on its lonely way. 




